


Memories

by desertno3



Category: Peaky Blinders (TV)
Genre: Angst, F/M, I may or may not have cried multiple times in the process of writing and editing this, I miss him!!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-26
Updated: 2021-01-26
Packaged: 2021-03-12 01:01:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,300
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29001909
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/desertno3/pseuds/desertno3
Summary: You finally tell your granddaughter about John.
Relationships: John Shelby/Reader, John Shelby/You
Kudos: 4





	Memories

“Thank you, darling,” You say as your granddaughter takes the stack of plates from your hands and starts setting them down on your long dining table.

You had invited everyone over for a family dinner and she’d insisted on coming over early to help you set up. It was becoming a rare occasion, having everyone under the same roof. Your kids and your grandkids were getting older and, as a result, were a lot busier these days.

“How’s work, love?”

“Fucking awful,” Your granddaughter replies with a grimace. “The head of my department is still a _bitch_. I got in trouble last week for talking back to her but I’ll tell you what, she deserved it!”

You know you shouldn’t encourage her behaviour but you can’t help but chuckle at her tenaciousness.

“I know she’s horrible, darling, but be careful,” You tell her. “You talk back to her one more time and you might be out of a job.”

She shakes her head, “Not gonna happen, nan. She knows she can’t fire me, I’m the best bookkeeper they’ve got.”

There’s a certain look in her eye when she says it, one that looks so familiar it makes you smile wistfully as you lay out the cutlery.

“You are too much like your granddad, you know that?”

She stops what she’s doing and looks at you curiously. “Really?”

You hum in confirmation. Out of your seven kids and your countless grandsons and granddaughters, she was the one who had your John’s personality to a tee.

"What was he like?"

It takes her a few moments to ask you that, unsure if it was a question that was okay to ask. For as long as she could remember, John - her grandfather on her mother’s side - was rarely spoken of and she never knew why. It had always been a thing of mystery to her and her cousins - even now as grown adults. They’d never even seen any photos of him let alone his side of the family. You'd left it all behind in a whirlwind of anger and pain on the day of his funeral.

You pause for a second after she asks you that, hesitating to answer. It was true that you never spoke much about John. There wasn't a day that went by where you didn't think about him but talking about him usually stirred up emotions that felt much too raw for something that happened to you decades ago.

For such a long time after John died, you were determined not to dwell on it - if not for your own sanity, then for your children. With one parent gone, you knew you had to be there for them, to be _present_ , and so it was just easier to not talk about it. But they were grown now, old enough to have their own children, and your heart breaks when you realise your grandkids had grown up without much knowledge of the man you loved with your entire heart.

"He was cocky." You don’t know why that’s the first thing that comes to mind, but it is. "Maybe too much for his own good."

Your granddaughter raises an eyebrow, noting the fond smile on your face.

"Something tells me you didn't mind that much," She teases and you laugh.

“You’re right, I didn’t. I loved him very much. He was charming and just… God, he was lovely. Stubborn, just like you, but he was sweet when he wanted to be.”

"Can I ask what happened to him?"

She’d always wondered. The first and only time she’d asked her mother about it, she simply said he was shot and that was that. She knew, though, from the look on her mother’s face that there was more to it. But there was something about that look that made her never dare ask again.

When you fall silent, she starts backtracking.

"You don't have to tell me if you don't want to."

“No, it’s okay,” You say, shaking your head. “You should know. He died in nineteen twenty-five. You see, he and his family… they were involved with a lot of people they should have never gotten involved with and he paid the price for it. Gunned down outside our own house on Christmas morning, right in front of me. He took about a dozen bullets... right through his chest.”

" _God_ ,” She whispers. “That’s horrible."

“I’m surprised your mum never told you about it.” You say to her, curious, because it wasn’t ever like what happened to John was to be kept a secret.

“I don’t think she likes talking about it.”

_Oh._ You feel a wave of sadness wash over you when she tells you that. Her mother - your’s and John’s eldest - was the only one of your seven who saw the gruesome aftermath of the shooting. She’d heard the commotion outside, heard her father’s voice yell out. She was the one who had corralled her siblings to the other side of the house right after the shots had rung out, making sure they didn’t have to see what she’d just seen - their father’s lifeless body bleeding out on the pavement.

“I don’t suppose she would,” You sigh. “She saw it all happen and it wasn’t a pretty sight. She was only a kid.”

You knew there was nothing you could have done in the moment to change how things unfolded but you did wish you could have somehow prevented her from seeing that. You remember the way she was afterwards. It was like the remaining years of her childhood were taken from her the moment her father was. She’d grown up quickly, stepping up to help you with the littler ones now that you didn’t have John around. You would see her trying to be strong, focusing on being there for her siblings, but then at night she’d crawl into your embrace and cry into your chest. And you’d hold her and cry, too.

“I’m sorry I brought it up,” Your granddaughter says sincerely, placing a hand on top of yours. She hated seeing you so forlorn.

You give her a grateful smile, moving to tuck a strand of her hair behind her ear. “Don’t be sorry, love. You deserve to know more about your own grandfather. I’m sorry I haven’t told you much about him over the years.”

“It’s understandable, nan. I… I can’t imagine what it must be like to lose someone like that,” She says softly. “Do you still miss him?”

You nod. “Always."

-

Later that night, after everyone had gone home, you rummage through your bedroom closet until you find a small wooden box - one you hadn’t touched in years.

You smile sadly when you open it to find an array of belongings nestled inside - your wedding ring, John’s rings, drawings and knick-knacks from when the kids were younger, and, finally, a small, framed portrait of John. The only photo you had left of him.

You take it out and lightly run your finger over his photographed face, looking as young as the day you last saw him.

Earlier, during dinner, you couldn’t help but look at all your children and all your grandchildren gathered together under one roof and think about how you wished John were alive to see the sight. It was the first time in a long time that you’d let yourself entertain that train of thought. You wanted him there, beside you, so you could turn to him with an awed smile on your face and say, _Look what we made, John._ An entire family and then some. He would have loved them all. That, you knew for sure.

Unshed tears stinging your eyes, you press your lips to the portrait before placing it back in its box.

“I’ll see you soon, love.”


End file.
